Song of the Century
by Whyntir
Summary: America is pulled into an alternate world engulfed in World War One . . . since 1914. The one who summoned him, calling himself Arthur, seeks the end of this war by destroying the German Empire with the help of America, but all is not as it seems; who is really the enemy, and why is it the longer he is in this world, the less he feels like himself? 2p!Hetalia / Update postponed.
1. Prologue

"_You won't-," the strong words of defiance cut off into a strangled gurgle, the tanned skin of the captive was torn and bleeding profusely, the black blood pumping out from his side with every heartbeat and splashed upon the metal floor like buckets of water. With one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other folded under his body to lift himself up, the brunette glared at the man. A boot swung, impacting him hard in the jaw as a weak groan escaped his throat._

"_You really are a pathetic bastard," the man cackled, dressed in a spotless uniform, the pants tucked securely into his tall boots and the dark blue of the fabric melding into the disorienting glow cast by the dim ultramarine lights in the utter darkness. A leather-clad hand gripped lazily at the wooden handle, examining the device as he turned it this way and that, the stained metal of the nails dripping to the ground and flecks falling on his hand, "Interesting weapon you have here. To think you held out this long with something so disgustingly primitive. I don't know whether to admire you or take it as an insult."_

_He rolled onto his back, coughing and hissing between clenched teeth as onyx spittle drooled down his lips and tarnished the broken teeth. A leg bent in the middle of the shin, a minced hand that bled as much as the wound in it tried to cover, he felt the dread fill him with adrenaline and a will to survive, but with no means to fight back. His good hand slipped into the tattered jacket's pocket, fingers grazing over the cool device within._

"_Do you wish for me to dispose of him?" the deep voice of the blonde echoed in the grand room, standing by the lit stairs that led to the throne of the mad ruler._

_The demented laughter sounded again, uncontrollable just like the owner who was forced to step back out of the force of the commotion. "No need to think about that," he waved the bat to the other silhouette in the shadows, "He won't be alive long as it is."_

_'Shit . . . Where the fuck are you?'_

_A painful grip at his neck elicited an anguished cry, his torso forced to follow as his head was wrenched up by the fist around his throat. His entire body protested the action as his spine was made to bend. Red-violet eyes met glowing crimson and a fear jolted through his heart in a way he had never felt before, leaving him cold. "Look at me maggot; the face of a god. Feel honoured I even gave you the chance before you die."_

_'I trusted . . . you.'_

_The face before him, cast in heavy shadows, and the dark room beyond all began melding together, blurring as blood left his body to gather in the onyx pool below. The grip on his neck vanished, leaving his skull to collide with the ground, the world suddenly a silent blackness._

"_How uncouth," a voice behind him spoke. The man wheeled around to face the intruder who regarded him with wide beryl eyes and a broad smile, floating midair with his legs crossed pleasantly and a teacup in hand._

_He grinned, teeth clenched in pent-up excitement. To the side, the other male held a gun at ready, but with a wave of his hand it lowered with great hesitance. The man waltzed forward, arms out stretched to the side as he held an expression of unadulterated glee, "Game over, looks like I win."_

"_Seeing you still standing here proves quite the contrary," the blonde smiled back, taking a sip of his fragrant drink, the colour of acid, "I'll be taking the lad home now, but don't think I'm done with you." He giggled, pouring the liquid to the floor; it ignited in a bright spark, the intruder disappearing in the momentary flash. The man turned to find the prisoner equally missing._

_The smile widened beyond its limits, a black fluid trickled from where the soft flesh ripped apart. His tongue flicked out, sensually lapping the blood."Then I'll be waiting."_

* * *

**A/N: New story *prepares to be beaten* Should I continue it?**


	2. Chapter 1

Everything hurt, from the dead weight his body became to the pounding agony in his head. Not only that, but before this sudden surge of consciousness there was nothing but a blank in his memory; he couldn't even remember where he was. The last recollection he had was at the G-8 Meeting in London, but everything had seemed normal then . . .

* * *

"_America," a voice called behind him, the blonde turned, grinning broadly as the host half-jogged to his side._

"_Hey, England," he greeted the older country, hands stuffed in the pants pockets of his copper-coloured suit, "What's up? I haven't seen you run like that since you pulled out of India."_

"_Shut up, git." The green-eyed nation glowered, not appreciating the joke in the slightest, "And here I was actually feeling worried about you. Never mind then." The island nation straightened himself out with unconscious tugs at the lapel of his jacket, as though shedding off unwanted debris._

_The American laughed, hiding his curiosity behind a guise of mocking aloofness, "There's nothing to worry about when it comes to me! I'm the Hero!"_

_America didn't miss the wary glance cast at him from the corner of his former care-taker's eye. He could see the anxiety swirling in deep emerald irises, they attempted to convey everything in that moment. Then it was over. England broke contact and waved him off, "Don't be late then, bloody twat." To say he was now confused would be an absolute understatement, but the way the other looked at him made him feel cold. What was it that instilled this sense of dread inside him, that forced England to give him such a helpless look?_

_Was that even what happened? The more he thought about it, the hazier it became._

* * *

"Open your eyes lad, I know you're conscious," that familiar voice cut into his thoughts.

Cobalt blue eyes snapped open as he shot up into a sitting position; which may not have been the smartest of choices. His gut lurched and head swam as he leaned over the bed and emptied his body of all the contents in his stomach. The thick fluids splashed against a hard concrete floor, further upsetting his body to release more, even when there was nothing left. America dry heaved a few times, retching and coughing before he slowly lifted his lids once more. The taste of bile and worn copper coated his mouth, but when his gaze focused, the floor was perfectly clean. He knew what he had heard and done. Five seconds after waking up and he was even more perturbed.

"Well, wasn't expecting _that_ reaction, but I can't blame you either. The change must be very sickening."

The blonde slowly lifted himself from the edge of the bed, glancing over his shoulder warily, America would honestly admit that he wasn't expecting what he saw. He had a suspicion that England had done something, and hearing his voice wasn't any help to the cause. His suspicion was that his former caretaker had been playing magician with him or something that went horribly wrong and now he could hold it over the other's head for a while.

He hadn't anticipated said man to be wearing a bright pink sweater vest over a lilac dress shirt drinking some acidic-looking liquid out of an obnoxiously colourful teacup, all while _defying gravity_!

America stared, the other ignoring him in favour of refilling his drink with an equally weightless teakettle that poured the steaming liquid with what sounded like sobs. His mouth slowly fell as his brows furrowed. This . . . honestly couldn't be happening. "When the hell did I fall down the demented rabbit hole? And how many rocks did I hit along the way?" He slowly raised his arm, getting feeling to return to the limb, and fisted some of the dishevelled locks as though a grip on something would return him to sanity.

"What do you mean, lad?" the England look-alike enquired, smiling almost pleasantly down at him as he set the cup on an equally gaudy saucer to cool, a fingertip tracing the rim, "There's no rabbit hole that can bring you to this place. No, only my magic can."

"And where _is_ 'this place'? I am pretty sure this is far from London. Better yet, who the hell are you? You look like . . . someone I know."

"Oh the contrary, this is London. And I must look like that fellow of yours, England is it? Yes, well, I technically _am_ him, but I go by Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. Cheers," he lifted the cup once more, grinning in a way that disturbed the North American country very much before sipping the strange drink. America really was at an absolute loss with what to do, here was this man who claimed to be England, who wanted him to believe this was London, and yet _nothing_ was the same! What was going on here? "I would offer you something to eat," Arthur suddenly called his attention back, looking into the unknown dark, "But while you are Alfred, you aren't Alfred. I can't have you dying on me like he did."

"What?"

"Then again, he didn't quite so much as die on me as much as that he was broken. Just like that man to go too far, but he never tries to drag me into the mess. Must be because he doesn't know."

"What?"

"However, no one really _would_ know. Nonetheless, it is very annoying with the curse."

"WHAT!?"

Arthur finally looked to the dumbfounded country who was now willing to rip out his hair more than anything else. America could have screamed when the levitating man chuckled and waved the outburst away, "Were you not paying attention, lad? Your wit is just the same."

"I would love to get to know the acid trip I'm on, but what you're saying makes no sense!" the blonde shouted, gripping his head as he felt a massive migraine take root. Why, oh why was this happening? When did England become some deranged Mad Hatter? When did the London become . . . this!? And when did he take the LSD needed for this messed up dream!? "Just," he struggled, deciding it was better to go with it and wait for the drugs to wear themselves out, "start from the beginning."

"I see. Rather unexpected, but I haven't any idea as to why; I really should stop formulation opinions beforehand. Very well then," Arthur uncrossed his legs, letting himself drift to the floor while the tea set was left to hover alone as he walked to the black wall closest to them. With a snap of his fingers, giant floor-to-ceiling panes pulled back, revealing a panoramic view of a city America had never seen before.

The building towered over everything, having to be as tall as a skyscraper, if not taller. Streets were held in the air by large pillars, the cars speeding by in flashes of reds over chrome roads, oblivious to the wide blue eyes watching them. The sky was pitch, no stars, not even a moon, to light the heavens; the city was the only light. What he could only describe as holographic billboards raged away along the high streets that continued off to out of sight as the lower streets appeared to be local, crisscrossing throughout the metropolis.

"This, lad, is London, and tomorrow will be the ninety-ninth anniversary of the longest, uninterrupted, war to ever plague the Earth."

America stood from the bed, looking out the window, now focusing beyond the city, the distant flashing of weaponry as the horizon seemed to bleed into the sky, "What war is this?"

"World War One lad, the war to end it _all_."

He didn't need to look to know Arthur was grinning from ear to ear.

"We rule as gods lad," the man continued, his pupils seeming to constrict as he gazed proudly out the vast window, "Immortal, powerful, we reign over humans with our wisdom. At first, it wasn't like this, we didn't care for such childishness and strove to keep moving forward industrially and better the lives of our citizens."

There was a long pause, the two stood in silence as the city continued on below, the war ever present in sight but ignored through conditioning. He could see it, off in the distance; almost hear the guns and tanks, the aeroplanes and their bombs alongside the screams of men. Memories of the war, the trenches and sickness. Gas, explosions, and the sounds of crying boys.

"Then a shift in our world changed everything," The blonde spoke with some sort of compassion, like he hated the war he engaged in. Leaving the view to return to his drink, America followed him with his eyes, turning when he had to in order to keep the man in sight. "The German Emperor suddenly began invading his neighbours, engaging his armies in a constant war against former friends. Slaughtering men, women, children; even those of our kind were not spared." He paused to drink, the visitor unable to read into this man. He spoke with almost no feeling, fluctuating the tone just right to jab his heart straight through. The soft chinking of glass marked the continuation of this brief history lesson that seemed disturbingly familiar. "Tell me, do you know what happens when the earth becomes so diluted with blood that vegetation dies and the water below the soil is poisoned by death itself?"

"No. That never happened in our world. We allowed the humans to rule, and because of their fear of death they kept the war from lasting too long."

Arthur smiled back, charming as ever as he seemed to look almost fondly at him, it took America a minute to realize he was being mocked, "How interesting. Well, to give you the answer then, the countries themselves become polluted. The very force of life in each of us turns rancid and corrupts the soul. This war is nothing more than a game to him; his soul so corrupted that mine is pure in comparison. I've been trying to bring an end to it, but a curse was cast upon me by one of our fellow leaders, limiting greatly what I can do with my magic. Because of this, Alfred, your counterpart, took the lead in the fight and ended up becoming useless. My . . ." The last sentence was muttered so softly, America couldn't be sure he heard right. Precious boy? Did Arthur and Alfred have a close relationship? That relationship he and England never had? He mentally backhanded himself; this was some fantasy that was conjured up by some suppressed feelings or something. He didn't normally have such weird delusions, but in this case he could make an exception.

Smirking outwardly, America shoved his fists into his suit pockets, playing along with this delusion, half wondering when Glinda the Good Witch would appear, "So you need me to help you defeat this evil Emperor and bring an end to this war because of this curse, which keeps you from finishing it by yourself."

"Precisely," Arthur smiled with a hint of appraisal, "you're smarter than you let off to be."

An unamused frown tugged down on his lips, "Gee, thanks." It didn't help when the man laughed to himself, riling the blonde's temper with irritation.

"I must inform you though, because of this limitation I cannot send you back at this time. If you want to return to your world, you'll have to talk to the one who cast the curse on me."

"Oh? And who would that be?" America enquired, sauntering to the bed. He felt a little ill, his stomach churning uncomfortably, but otherwise he seemed perfectly fine. A teacup jammed itself into his face, filled with that acidic-coloured liquid the Englishman drank nonstop. He raised an eyebrow questioningly at his host.

Arthur smiled charmingly, not seeming to have any malice behind his actions as he floated but an inch or two off the ground, "Have a drink lad, you look pale." The country took the ear in hand, watching the magician warily; unsure to trust the overly fruity-smelling drink. Ignoring him, the man continued on, "He goes by the name of Ivan Braginsky and lives up north. Though he stays out of the affairs of the wars for the most part, he claims to have cast the spell to keep me from destroying the world with my own magic. I think it was just a ploy for me to also rely on his mercenary groups. All the man cares about is what he can gain out of it."

"I see, so I would have to ask him to send me back, but odds are he would want something of equal value."

The gentleman clapped his hands excitedly, "You _do_ have a brain in that skull of yours~! I'm so glad!"

Smiling in a vain attempt to hide his irritation, America's grip tightened around the cup, though surprisingly it did not shatter in his superhuman strength. Glancing down, the warmth emanating from the beverage, mixed with the sweet scent of fruit was enticing. It _was_ just a dream. Tilting his head back, the liquid slipped past dry lips, tasting salty and bitter at first before dulling to a sweet flavour that reminded him of passion fruit. Surprisingly, it quickly calmed his stomach, the sense of _wrongness _leaving his body with every gulp, as well as his eyelids feeling heavy with sudden tiredness. He never saw the way that smile widened dangerously, beryl irises reducing to half-moons.

The cat that ate the canary


	3. Chapter 2

Fire crackled in the hearth, the air heating and causing the wood to snap, embers raining down from the fuel. The gentle creak of the rocking chair soothed him comfortably, the warmth of the orange glow washing over him. The dark mansion was made of wood, despite the era of metal and machines. The book in his lap captured the light of the small inferno, seeming to store it in glimmering jewels that encrusted the face. "Dear earthly children of heaven's design, you've fallen from the grace of the divine. Your lord hath forsaken you to eternity, watch as you descend into the night of insanity." The steady rocking never slowed casting a long, wavering shadow across the room. Eyes seemed to peer out from the dark beings that danced in the wavering light of the flames, his own seeming to grin brightly.

A plush rug at his feet, spread over the dark wood floor, was the only bright article in the house. The furniture stained ebony and finished with crimson cushions, the colour of blood. The carpeting spread out over the sitting place a brilliant yellow, the colour of the sunflowers he remembered many years ago. A pale, thin hand grazed over the book once more, "Bastard children from the bowels of the earth, from blood, and tears, and hope you were birthed. Your beauty has withered with hatred and time, counting down to the church bell's final chime. You are the body of evil in this place, with your rotten, smiling face." The fire jumped at the last line, crackling madly with what could be called malice.

The rhythmic swaying of the chair came to a complete halt, the sitter appearing asleep even as a door in some other room was hurled open. "Braginsky!" his visitor shouted, echoing through the great house, "Where are you!?"

"In the parlour Master Beilschmidt," he called back, ignoring the obvious rage in the newcomer's voice. The partially open glass doors were hurled wide as the man stormed in, heavy boots loudly clomping across the wood panels. He didn't even bother opening his eyes even as hands viciously grappled at the article of cloth about his neck.

"What are you playing at Braginsky?"

A plastic smile graced the Russian's features as he made no response to the potentially violent action, placidly running his fingertips over the stiff leather, "Whatever do you mean? Isn't it a bit rude to barge into someone's home and then go so far as to accuse them of some crime?"

"Don't start with me; you swore the spell I purchased from you would keep Kirkland out of the capital!" the angry voice hissed, heated, moist breath pelting his face.

Magenta eyes closed into half-moons, "Aha~, so I did. I'll simply assume Arthur _did_ appear and you desperately want an explanation as to how that happened." Taking the brief silence as an affirmative, he continued, "I have the guess he made a counter-spell that needed to be activated from the inside. Tell me, did one of his allies somehow make it inside the city?"

There was a beat before the German roughly released the carmine scarf with an affirmative grunt. Settling back into the rocking chair, Ivan opened his eyes half-mast, watching the man cast in heavy shadows from under thick eyelashes. The fire seemed to become captured in those luminous irises, dancing with some hidden evil. "Master Jones was it?" he spoke as if this was all of little interest with the same emotionless smile, "Don't worry, there is no chance for him to enter again as long as there is not a repeat of such an incident. By the way, doesn't your _brother_ wonder why Arthur never faces him directly?"

". . . No."

"Lied about that too I see," Ivan giggled, eyes sliding shut returning to rocking gently in his chair, the old creak of the wood muffled by the out-of-place rug.

He glared, arms crossed; his black uniform melded into the shadow, making him almost disappear in the dark before turning away, heading back out the doors. "I'm simply . . . repaying what I can."

"Ah yes, what sacrifices, but they don't seem quite selfless."

"What is your point in saying that?" he grumbled, turning once more, nothing more than an indistinct silhouette.

Chuckling softly to himself, pinkish irises fluttered open, Ivan's fake grin became a threatening smirk, though he made no move to get up from the seat, or even turn his head, watching the German from the corner of his eye, "A sacrifice may not always be selfless, yet selflessness is always a sacrifice. A father may send his son to war and give him up to the government, then the young soldier dies for some ruler who's face he has never born witness to."

"Your analogy makes no sense."

"Or perhaps you are simply blind to the meaning."

There was a pregnant pause between the two, the only sound being the smothered creak of the seat and the crackling of the fire. A log lifted in the air, hurling itself into the dying flames with a shower of sparks and cinders. The guest pulled a peak cap over his head, "Any more ominous words of wisdom to pass on?"

"Try looking in a mirror."

* * *

"_You damned git, don't go dying on me!"_

"_. . . hurts . . ."_

"_Serves you right for not listening, now shut up and drink this."_

"_. . . why?"_

"_Because you shouldn't be here much longer and if you still plan on being useful to me, you'll do as I say."_

_It tasted salty and bitter at first before dulling into a sweet flavour, some sort of fruit. Forcefully swallowing the concoction, he felt a tiredness enveloping his body, numbing the agony as well as darkening his sight. His weak heart jumped in a panicked struggle to stay beating as he fought the effects, trying to spit out the rest of the drink. Finally it ended, his body feeling like lead, his eyes wanting to roll into his skull._

"_Are you . . . trying to kill me . . ?"_

"_No. And when have I ever lied to you?"_

_A sort of peace came over him as all went black._

* * *

Shooting upright, clothes sticking to him in a cold sweat, America trembled, staring into the darkness. What the hell kind of dream was _that_!? A crazy England, evil German Empire. WWI in the year 2013, and . . . whatever the fuck _that_ was! It seriously felt like he was dying in that moment, like he was being disconnected from his body by some invisible force. Oh thank god it was all over, he seriously regretted his recreation of the sixties.

He must have been tired, his sweat-drenched dress shirt sticking to his body; at least sometime during all this he found the decency to remove his jacket and shoes. The pitch darkness of the room indicated that he probably missed his flight, winding up at some hotel and slept off the flashback. Reaching to the side, he felt for a table and, in effect, his glasses. Maybe a light also. Unsurprisingly, he found both, grabbing the specs and finding the switch to the lamp, he noted how stiff he felt. Every movement was clumsy and slow, even getting drunk wasn't this bad; even more, he felt thoroughly disoriented. Where was he? He wanted to guess some place in England, but at the same time there was the familiarity that came with being back home.

"What the heck?" he finally managed to twist the switch, the bulb blinding him for a moment as the pitch darkness was instantly replaced by the light. Looking away, an arm shielding his face, America groaned lowly, this definitely wasn't home. Turning his back to the bedside table and scooting over to the far other side of the mattress, he rubbed the inner corners of his eyes, scratching the grit out before sighing, slipping the arms of Texas over his ears. Maybe he should call in sick or something, he felt seriously out of it; any debriefing could wait until he sorted everything out.

Reluctantly opening his eyes, the cramped quarters looked nothing like any hotel he had been to in the recent century. The polished cherry wood floor and cream walls with matching wood trimming were so . . . old fashioned. Rather, very reminiscent to some far away memory he would like to keep suppressed. "Where . . . ?"

"Well, well, welcome back to the living."

America turned in surprise, just in time to see something coming at his head.

* * *

He glanced at the tea set before him, unsure whether or not it was really worth the taste, even to satisfy his undying curiosity. It smelt delicious, but he already knew of the other's deadly hobby and the possibility that he would find himself severely ill somewhere was ever present. Ignoring the cup, he glanced back up to his host. "What's the matter Francis? Are you not thirsty?"

Sapphire eyes narrowed slightly at the charming smile cast his way, "No, not particularly. I just needed to confirm some things with you before I continue on my trip."

"Oh?" Arthur chimed, freezing the cup halfway to his lip, deciding to place it back into its saucer, "What trip might that be?"

The urge to snap that his affairs were none of the man's business was most certainly there, but the Frenchman held back, keeping eye contact as he took a long drag on the cigarette, embers glowing as he inhaled. The ash in his lungs and nicotine through his veins calmed him significantly as he sighed, rancid smoke leaving his lips, "Just price negotiations with Yao. Nothing too serious, so don't get the wrong idea."

"Whatever do you mean Francis?" the Englishman hummed, folding an arm over his chest and balancing his elbow on his wrist, tilting his head to rest against his knuckles as he leaned back in the chair, smile never faltering, "your business is always your own, that was simply out of curiosity."

_'Bullshit,'_ he thought bitterly, the butt expertly balanced between his lips, the urge to break the facade was strong, but he knew Arthur was taunting him. "Of course, enough about me however. I caught wind down the grapevine that you managed to get into Berlin, I thought you said there was something keeping you from doing so."

"Ah, that finally trickled down, huh? I would have thought _that man_ would have wanted to keep it quiet. He's getting rather cocky, hopefully I can knock him down a few pegs."

"And how do you plan to do that?" the Frenchman enquired, tapping the ash into the teacup, the liquid changing from neon green to a sickly pale colour, "I also heard your boy didn't make it."

Shoulders shook slightly as the Brit laughed, drawing his gaze, "So that's why yours wanted to come so bad. Well, I'll have you know-."

A loud crash upstairs drew Francis' eyes away from his host entirely, the blonde looking up as the sounds of a fight broke out. Confusion and anxious caution tickled his spine as a cold feeling entered his stomach, what the hell was going on up there? Arthur's laughing only increased as he covered his mouth, the other arm wrapped about his abdomen in pain. "What is that!?" the mainland country demanded, rising to his feet and reaching for the gun in his jacket.

"Calm down Francis," he giggled, "it's only the boys playing rough again."


	4. Chapter 3

Instinctively blocking the blow with lifted arms, the unexpected feeling of weightlessness lurched his stomach. His spine erupting in pain as his stiff back slammed into the hardwood floor. Groaning, slowly rolling on his stomach, America could hear the slow, sharp clacking of boots on the hardwood floor, his attacker in no hurry to finish him off.

_'Terrorists!?'_ America's mind raged, adrenaline coating his veins as he determined a flight or fight response. The door was too far away, on the opposite side of the room, and the footsteps slowly continued their way around, getting ever closer. He would have to fight, but with what? Something caught his eye from under the bed. Grabbing the neck, he prepared for the other's next move.

The smell of nicotine lingered in the air as the intruder chuckled airily, "Did I come at a bad time? Surely you can put up more of a fight than _that_ pathetic excuse."

His grip tightened on the handle, the glossy toe of a polished boot appeared from around the corner. Gritting his teeth, the country rolled out from the side of the bed, deftly balancing on his feet. His attacker was garbed in bright, vibrant red and black pant with tall, knee-high boots. America had little time to think, swinging his weapon against the other, faintly registering that baseball bats were not usually so heavy. He could see his own reflection in the opaque lenses of dark sunglasses, but the image looked nothing like him.

_Light brown hair and tinted lenses, lavender eyes glaring back as his teeth ground together in a ferocious snarl._

And then it vanished.

The other stepped back, barely evading the blow, the sunglasses being knocked off their face, cigarette falling from surprise. Everything was silent except for the rampant pounding of his heart, the lenses clattering to the floor.

_'What . . .?'_ his strength seeped out all at once, the bat falling to the ground with a heavy clatter.

"You really must be out of it," the man chuckled, a leather-clad hand reached up to his upper cheek, a trickle of blood sliding down the pale cheek, his thumb smearing it, "you lost your grip so easy." Vibrant amethyst eyes glowering up from under thick lashes, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Don't think I'm done yet." His right arm swung forward, the hockey stick in hand aiming for his skull.

America side-stepped the attack barely, losing balance and staggering into a dresser, the edge digging into his back, _'Wh . . . why?'_ Ducking and weaving, hearing the wind whistle past his ear as yet another blow whizzed by at a hair's breadth. _'Please, please wake up! Th-this can't be real!'_

An unfamiliar smile responded to him as the other's eyes widening manically, teeth clashing together with a threatening sneer as the unusually strong stick lashed out once more. Finding himself unable to evade, America lifted his arms to block. It felt like being hit by a truck, the impact jarring his forearms violently, earning a short cry as he fell back into the wall.

"Good thing you woke up," he chuckled, looming over him, the leather gloves tightening around the sick, "that way I can kill you myself." The sentence alone felt like a dagger being plunged into his heart.

_'C-. . . Cana-'_

"Matthieu!"

America trembled, staring down the stick at his _brother_, the other's long wavy hair pulled into a low ponytail. Canada matched his gaze with one of agitation and malicious intent, a deadly promise wordlessly passing between them before the contact broke. "What is it Francis?" the crimson-clad man growled, standing erect, the hockey stick returning to his side.

"That . . . Alfred?" The stern-looking man at the door gazed steadily at him, azure eyes timidly meeting deep sapphire. This wasn't the France _he_ knew. His hair longer, paler, wisps of a moustache adorning his upper lip. His eyes, though openly displaying surprise, were like stones; distant and unyielding.

A light chuckle from the other side of the room drew attention from all three of the other occupants. There, acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary in the slightest, was the England from before. "See Francis," he chirped, having somehow appeared on the bed, hardly giving them any of his attention.

With the sudden calm, the country's legs felt like jello, coaxing him down under the force of gravity. Sliding with his back to the wall, the blonde drew his legs to his chest. "What . . . where am I?"

"We've already been over that lad," the grinning man gazed at him condescendingly, his sight boring into America's very soul. "I brought you here, everything you know and believe doesn't matter and doesn't exist." The other two stood in silent confusion as the words sunk in, followed by dread.

* * *

"Emperor-."

"No need for formalities," the other cut him off, "we're brothers after all." The room was dark, the gloomy ultramarine lights from the floor hardly illuminated up to his chest as a pale hand twisted his trophy in circles. The blood-stained bat hadn't left his sight since Arthur appeared, having enthralled his brother by the sheer barbarity of it's design. Nails hammered into the barrel, some going all the way through, others only partial, more than half were gnarled and crooked, rust clinging to the edges making the weapon all the more deadly.

"Brother," he began again, "I don't think Kirkland will return. He may use his allies to attack you however, so it would be best to up the security of the capital."

There was a hearty silence, as the bat halted in it's methodical movements, "I don't think so." He remained curiously silent, wordlessly urging the other to continue. "Why would you take the corpse of your lap-dog when it is of no further use to you?"

". . . Brother?"

"You don't," he ignored the other, his free arm propping up his chin as glowing carmine eyes scrutinizing the offending object, "unless it's still useful."

* * *

_Laughter ricocheted off the metallic walls as his boot came down, the stunned boy on the ground screamed, attempting to wrench his hand out from under the heavy boot, the crackle and pop of bones and joints splintering was more interesting than repulsive. He stood off to the side, watching as the skeletal fragments broke through skin as the other twisted his foot, earning another ear-piercing shriek of agony. Already bleeding from a bullet wound, the brunette writhed in anguish in his own blood, too weak from his ascent to the throne room._

* * *

"There was no way he could have survived that," he interjected, the bodily injuries to the boy had simply been too great.

A smile graced the other's lips, not malicious or psychotic, but a mere gentle curve. "Ludwig," he chided, softly tsking his tongue, "there are still so many things you do not yet understand. It's nothing for you to fret over regardless. Go rest, you look tired."

". . . Alright, brother." The blonde frowned to himself as he retreated, sparing a quick glance over the shoulder to watch the eyes of a demon see him out.


End file.
